Funerals

"That’s all that’s left of a life," my sister-in-law said yesterday. "A mound of dirt, fading flowers, and memories."

We were standing beside her mother’s grave, most of the people having gone home and the cemetery guy in his overalls pottering around raking up the last of the dirt.

As a minister’s wife in a church with a large percentage of elderly people, I am used to funerals. I have family and friends who haven’t been to a funeral in probably 15 years, and I can’t imagine. I have been at big funerals and small ones, funerals where we laughed and funerals where we cried and funerals where we did neither. I have seen what goes on behind the scenes, from making food for the meal afterward to stepping into the church nursery to nurse the baby and finding two black-suited funeral-home guys relaxing in the rocking chairs.

Most of these funerals have been for people who were no relation to me and who spent the last few years in a nursing home, which makes the final goodbye tinged with relief rather than deep grief. But in the last 6 months they have been closer to home.

Paul’s dad passed away in November. This time it was us on the receiving end of food and flowers, we who gathered to plan the funeral and who solemnly filed into the church in front of hundreds of people.

And yesterday we buried Geneva’s mom. Geneva, my brother Phil’s wife, is an only child, a weighty burden to bear at the best of times and a nearly-impossible load when one’s parents grow old and die. Her mom had such a bad heart that she couldn’t walk across the kitchen without gasping for breath, so a week and a half ago she had heart surgery. All went well for nearly a week, but then something went wrong, her heart stopped, and she was on life support until they shut down the machines the next day.

So there we were at the hospital, trying to be family for her because we realized that the whole weight of these decisions was on her and Phil. Should they pull the plug, first of all? Then, which funeral home, which casket, which day for the funeral, which songs, who should officiate?

Paul ended up calling the funeral home and working out arrangements for the service, bless him, since Geneva didn’t have any big brothers to do it.

The funeral was simple and nice and people told Irene goodbye and we buried her, and Geneva was left with, as she said, a mound of dirt, fading flowers, and memories.

And a lot more. What a blessing it is to those who come behind us to live a good life and die a good death. Everyone had good memories of Irene and knew that she had finished her work and was ready to go. No lingering doubts, no terrible shock, no nagging what-if’s. Just a gentle goodbye. What a gift.



Quote of the Day:
"I go to prepare a place for you, and if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself."
--Jesus